Peter May - Runaway

A middle-aged woman stood on her own halfway down. Lean once, but carrying now a little of the weight that comes with age. She had dark hair drawn back from a strong face, and looked up from the grave she was standing over as Jack approached.

He glanced down at the headstone. Rachel Stahl. 1949–2013 . So she had never married, or at least had kept her maiden name. And died just two years ago. Jack felt a wave of melancholy weaken his legs and he supported himself heavily on his stick.

When he looked up, he found the woman gazing at him with puzzled curiosity.

‘Are you the man Uncle Maurie said would meet me here?’

Jack nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

‘You’re a friend of his?’

‘Since we were boys.’

She took some moments to digest this. ‘I never met him until he came out of prison,’ she said. And, then, as if fearing this was an indiscretion, added quickly, ‘I suppose you must have known about that?’

Jack nodded, and she seemed relieved.

‘He did it for me and my mother, you know. She said it was the only reason he took that money from the client account. When we were really on our uppers.’ She paused. ‘He said you could tell me about my mother.’ She had her mother’s eyes. So dark, and yet so full of light.

Jack found his courage. ‘I think you can probably tell me much more about her than I ever could.’ He paused. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

She shook her head, and there was a sadness in her voice. ‘I was an only child.’ Then she brightened. ‘But I have three of my own.’ And her curiosity returned. She frowned. ‘Who are you?’

Jack’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak. ‘I believe I’m your father.’